


Let Me Call You Sweetheart

by revampired



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Major Character Injury, Makkachin Lives, Paris (City), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War I, Protective Katsuki Yuuri, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-23 08:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14328177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revampired/pseuds/revampired
Summary: The Great War is over, the Jazz Age is in full swing - and Yuuri Katsuki wanders aimlessly around Paris, looking for something he lost, long ago.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, enjoy an angsty little twoshot set in Paris still recovering from WW1. I cheated and made Yuuri American and Victor French (though still very proud of their respective heritages!!), which was more or less pure laziness on my part. As for the history, I did my best to keep it accurate, but... I am a humble fanfiction author without proper access to Jstor. 
> 
> Apologies in advance to any historians reading this, lol. Right off the bat I'm gonna say that the Ella Fitzgerald song in the beginning was actually written in 1926, but the fic is set in 1923. Can't come for me if I admit it!!
> 
> Here are the two songs mentioned in the fic, links also included in the text:  
> [Blue Skies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epRXoS_P0lk) \- Ella Fitzgerald
> 
> [Let Me Call You Sweetheart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GgvDariuAN0) \- Arthur Clough originally in 1910, though the link is to a recording by Bing Crosby
> 
> The "graphic violence" warning is only for a few lines in the next segment, and it's about something that happened in the past, so don't let it freak you out. 
> 
> Please enjoy, and comment if you did!

_Paris is still beautiful,_ Yuuri thinks.

Beautiful, in all its ragged, war-weary glory. The streets of New York and San Francisco glitter with a newfound wealth, and among the Parisians, the American tourists are bright, flashing lights.

It’s not the Paris of Yuuri’s youth, but it’s lovely all the same, all these years later. The gardens are in bloom, the cafes bustle with sticky-sweet pastries and happy children, and Ella Fitzgerald’s voice warbles out from radios in cafes.

“[Blue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epRXoS_P0lk) skies smilin’ at me, nothin’ but blue skies do I see…”

Yuuri hums along, pushing his glasses up his nose nervously. He’s come here for something, though he doesn’t know what.

How does that make him different from the other tourists, expats he’s trying so desperately to distance himself from? Overcome by a sense of post-war ennui, dissolutioned with the so-called American dream, seeking, or perhaps trying to escape from a feeling he can’t quite name.

“ _J-J’aime les parisiens,” Yuuri stammers out, tasting wine not from his own lips, wrapped around a murky, shadowy figure_.

“ _Non,” he hears through the warbling, radio static, “T’aimes_ un _parisien.”_

_I love the Parisians._

_No, you love_ one _Parisian._

Men dot the streets as Yuuri strolls along, little crumpled statues of clothing and marred skin. Some are without arms, some without legs, some both - and Yuuri frowns, not quite able to meet any of their eyes.

They were there before, but now somehow their presence is bigger. Maybe it’s the crumbling buildings, the exhaustion still in everyone’s eyes, four years after the November armistice, maybe it’s the heightened sense that everything is changed, now – or maybe it's just Yuuri, unable to find the brightness in life anymore. The streets that seemed full of wonder and life have lost their splendor.

Yuuri sighs. _What am I even doing here?_ He wonders.

He begins to hum, to himself, a tune from what seems like a lifetime ago.

_I’m dreaming, dear, of you - day by day._

It all seemed so simple then, didn’t it? Maybe, probably in fact, it wasn’t really - but when Yuuri thinks back, all he can imagine are blue, blue eyes and long silver hair and lips syrup-sweet and soft. His parents were so proud of him, studying in Paris at barely eighteen - but then the war began and he could never quite regain his footing when he stumbled off the boat back in New York, Belgium just barely fallen to the Germans.

 _Write to me_ , he pleads, over and over again, _write to me from the army._

_Of course, my darling Yuurichka, but this will all be over before Christmas. I’ll have you in my arms come the spring, won’t I?_

_You’re so brave,_ Yuuri says in broken French, _So brave, going to fight for France._

Even though what he wants to say is: _Stay with me, please_.

* * *

 

Yuuri dreams. His apartment is right by a rattling, late-night train - when it passes, it shakes and shakes and his books fall off the shelf, so he’s stopped keeping them there. They litter the couches and chairs, half-open, pages fluttering as wind whistles through the open window.

In the dream, the apartment rattles, but it’s not this apartment - it’s a dingy little thing in San Francisco, dingier still because he seems to be somewhere cramped, dark and trembling. Someone clamps a hand over his mouth, someone’s nails dig deep into his arm. He knows - he knows that breathing.

_Mari?_

Then, he notices the rattling, notices his own chattering teeth and pounding heart, how the earth seems to roil like the sea beneath him. The wood from the closet - right, he’s in a closet, his sister clinging to him and trying not to cry - splinters, the earth trembles beneath him, and suddenly the floor is split wide open and he’s falling, falling, falling-

Acrid smoke fills the air. All around him, there’s screaming - women, clinging to their babies, children, the screaming sizzle of hot metal and wood. He can’t see, he can barely breathe, where’s Mari, where’s Mari, where’s okaasan and otousan-

Aftershocks make the earth _roil_. Yuuri falls to his knees, a hand reaches out to pick him up-

Blue, blue eyes stare down at him. _That’s impossible,_ Yuuri thinks, _I haven’t met you yet_.

“Why didn’t you come find me?”

Yuuri squints, half-blind without his glasses. “I’m sorry,” he chokes through his smoke-cracked throat.

“I waited for you, on the battlefield. When the Americans joined, I thought I might see you.”

 _This isn’t real_ , Yuuri thinks. _It’s not real. Mari says it’s good I failed the eye test._

Behind him, something _cracks_. Yuuri barely has time to register a silver, pony-tailed head disappearing into the smoke of a burning San Francisco before shadow descends upon him, and he looks up to see rubble crashing down like hellfire-

Yuuri wakes with a shriek, sweat soaking through to his sheets. A train rattles past, and the apartment shakes, and cold, piercing terror strikes through Yuuri’s heart for an instant. It takes a long, painful moment for Yuuri’s heart to stop pounding. He lies back on his damp sheets and breathes, slow and deep, staring up at the wooden ceiling of his apartment.

His parents were fine. His sister was fine. Minako was fine. They rebuilt their inn even better than before, and business has been booming ever since.

He’s never understood these night terrors that plague him when there was no real harm other than the fear he felt in the moment of the earthquake, the fire.

When war was still on the horizon, and his friends were signing themselves away to service, he worried they might affect him in the trenches.

It was a secret, shameful relief when he was deferred due to his awful eyesight. This wasn’t just a night terror, though - to Yuuri, it seems a premonition. Why else would those eyes have been there? That face? Those sweet, sweet lips?

Sleep won’t come back easy. Yuuri sighs and wriggles uncomfortably in his sweaty pajamas, trying to calm himself with the memory of music and a strong hand on the small of his back.

* * *

 

In 1919, Yuuri had received a letter. It was in strange, warped ink, as though the hand writing it was trembling.

_My Darling Yuuri,_

_The summer we spent together has long since past - winter creeps ever closer. I stopped writing to you with the intention that you would stop as well._

_I am not what I once was, and it’s best you forget me_.

He was younger, then, and heartbreak took to him like consumption. He spent long, lonely nights curled up in his bed, thinking of hot Parisian summers, of visiting the store with record players far too expensive for him to purchase to listen to music before being kicked out.

Of running his fingers through long, lovely silver hair, of sweet kisses and the taste of smooth neck, the rabbit-quick pulse of a vein below his lips.

The crooning song playing over, and over, and over again. Hearing it not from the singer, but a different voice, murmuring it soft and warm against his ear.

_[Let](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GgvDariuAN0) me call you "Sweetheart," I'm in love with you_

Yuuri asked - Nikiforov didn’t sound French. Victor Nikiforov wasn’t a French name. And Victor laughed and told him that his family had fled Russia during the violence at the turn of the century, made their home in France, among the arts and music and lovely gardens.

_Let me hear you whisper that you love me too_

The clouds of war, looming over the horizon. They wrote, love letters marked with cologne, Yuuri reminding Victor of the stars and warmth and happiness of their youth.

_Keep the love-light glowing in your eyes so true_

He responded, for a time. His letters got longer, but said less and less. Then, with no word and the war’s end in sight, they stopped - for months, Yuuri wrote, looked for evidence of Victor, pleaded with all the forces of the universe to return Victor safely to him. He didn’t know how’d he’d learn whether or not Victor had died - then Victor wrote to him, one last time.

 _It’s best you forget me_ , he said.

_Let me call you "Sweetheart," I'm in love with you_

* * *

 

It’s 1923, and Yuuri is twenty seven. He much prefers jazz to the boring sentimentality of his youth, so when he buys a record player for his apartment, he knows exactly the kinds of albums he wishes to furnish his apartment with. He does buy an old copy of that old song, though, and to his unending frustration finds himself humming it as he goes about his daily tasks.

 _I wonder where Victor is_ , Yuuri finds himself thinking, more and more. The sights, the sounds, especially the _smells_ \- all of them bring him back to his youth.

After the third time of Yuuri orders his coffee and remembers Victor strange habit of taking his tea with jam, he decides with a frustrated finality that he should at least find out what happened to his childhood beau. If only to properly tell him off for breaking his heart.

 _What if he’s dead_ , Yuuri thinks with a jolt of worry. He shakes his head. There’s no reason to think that - other than the spanish flu, perhaps. No. Yuuri shakes his head again. This is just… a journey of discovery, nothing more. Whatever answer he’s given, he’ll - he’ll take it.

( _Don’t leave me_ , he pleads, in tears. _Come home with me. Stay with me._

Victor’s eyes are wet and shining, but his face is split into a grin. _I have to fight,_ he responds, _for my adoptive country_.)

The records office is musty, heady with the scent of books and archives dating back decades - centuries, even. He asks, in French rusty from disuse, “Can I access the city directory for this year?”

The woman at the desk raises her eyebrow, but nods all the same. She directs him to a back room with a few rickety wooden tables and low, flickering lights, and Yuuri mumbles out his thanks.

“They’re all back here,” she explains. “If you’re looking for someone.”

Yuuri pores through the pages, classified by district, looking for that distinctive name. _Nikiforov, Nikiforov, Nikiforov-_

The last letter didn’t have a return address, so he searches desperately through the 1922 volume and-

Nothing. It’s as though there’s no Victor Nikiforov in the entire city of Paris. _Maybe he’s moved?_ Yuuri wonders, worrying his lip. But where would he have moved to? Certainly not back to Russia, not after the revolution.

The volume from 1921 is much the same - no Victor Nikiforov in any neighborhood of Paris. He’ll be twenty seven as well, but there’s no record of an occupation, or an address, or a family.

Just as he’s finishing rifling through the directory, the receptionist calls to him that they’re closing for the evening.

“Can’t you let me stay here?” Yuuri pleads. “I just… I need to find someone.”

“Someone?” the woman asks, skeptically.

“I loved him, a long time ago,” Yuuri pleads. “I think he’s in trouble. He stopped writing during the war-”

“Are you sure he didn’t die in the war?” The receptionist snorts, cruelly. “You’re wasting your time.”

“How can you say that?” Yuuri snaps, chair clattering to the floor as he stands. “You don’t need to be so nasty about this.”

She glares right back, tired. Frustrated. She mutters, “If he was in the war, even if he’s alive, I doubt he wants to be. My brother is the same.”

A lump forms in Yuuri’s throat. Wordlessly, he puts the thick tomes away, and stalks out into the night.

* * *

 

The last address Victor had was in 1919, a shared apartment in a seedy section of the city with a man named Christophe Giacometti. Yuuri’s stomach clenches when he sees that, thinks of Victor spending his days in the arms and bed of another man. Leaving Yuuri to worry for weeks on end while he spends his days being touched like Yuuri used to touch him.

In 1918, he was honorably discharged from the army, after four full years of service. It doesn’t say why. In 1919, he was living in Paris.

Why does his name disappear, though, after that?

In a fit of terror, Yuuri wastes time poring through obituaries and death certificates from the following years - much to the interest of the receptionist, named Sara, as Yuuri now knows.

The days pass in a routine. He wakes, makes his breakfast, takes a long, strolling walk through the city to the records office. Sara greets him, half pitying, and guides him to the back, where he’ll spend hours poring through volumes and volumes of death dates.

_What if Victor doesn’t want to be found?_

The thought occurs to Yuuri more than once. He’s putting in more effort into finding Victor than Victor did in saying goodbye to him.

There’s nothing in the archives. It’s as though Victor Nikiforov simply vanished.

It seems like Christophe Giacometti, a roommate - lover? - from four years ago is his only lead. Yuuri groans and buries his face in his hands.

Sara offers him a pastry as he wanders out that evening, rubbing his eyes miserably.

“Yuuri,” she calls, soft. Contemplative. “What happened?”

Yuuri blinks. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you trying so hard to find him? He rejected you, and petty revenge isn’t worth this kind of effort.”

Yuuri winces. Thinking of Victor - it hurts so much.

“It feels wrong,” Yuuri manages. “We - we were in love. We were kids, sure, but we were in love - and we wrote so often, love letters to and from the front. He was talking about marrying me, once the war was over, and suddenly…”

He sighs, taking a bite of the pastry.

“You think something happened to him,” Sara says.

Yuuri nods. “The letter didn’t feel like him. The handwriting was his, but it was… Wrong. I didn’t realize it at the time, but what if he didn’t want to send me away - what if he felt like he needed to?”

Sara nods, carefully. “The war probably changed him,” she murmurs. “It changed so many. Created these hollow men.”

“Or maybe he just fell in love with someone else,” Yuuri mutters, the name _Christophe_ sour on his tongue.

Sara sighs sympathetically. “Good luck, Yuuri. Not many stories have happy endings, these days.”

* * *

 

Thoughts swirling in his head, Yuuri takes the long way home. At night, the street people move around - some congregating around jazz clubs and bars, waiting for tipsy patrons to drop their change into little cans and hats, some vanishing into the night. Yuuri wonders if they have a soft place to sleep.

Tomorrow he’ll find Christophe. He walks along streets lit by gas lamps, hears jazz and raucous laughter spilling out from the buildings. A part of him wants to go buy a drink - he can’t do that back home, after all, and he pauses in front of a bar. He hears bright, loud laughter, sees gleeful faces, and finds he can’t find it in him to join them.

He’s always been more prone to melancholy than his peers, though less so since the war ended and _melancholy_ became the norm, and he watches some obvious Americans laugh and smoke and down drinks they’d be arrested for back home.

Yuuri stands, watching them, watching a jazz band perform inside the bar - until the owner notices him and shoos him off.

“Get out if you won’t pay for a drink,” he shouts in thickly accented English.

By the time he arrives home to his rattling, shaking apartment, night has completely fallen.

* * *

 

Christophe’s existence, and possible relationship with Victor, lights a fire in Yuuri’s belly. He flies through the most up to date directory to find his most recent address - still in the same seedy part of the city. The directory lists his occupation as _dressmaker_ and that somehow makes Yuuri even angrier.

It’s far enough that Yuuri needs to take the metro, and he emerges from beneath the earth with renewed vigor.

 _I’m going to knock on his door_ , Yuuri thinks bitterly, _And I’m going to ask him what on earth happened to Victor_.

Women wander tiredly through the streets, shopping for fresh vegetables and fruits. The clock chimes eleven - clearly, these women have had a late night, and Yuuri can’t help but think-

“ _Ohh, isn’t he cute?” A woman with far too much rouge and a dangerously low neckline pinches his cheek, flushed dark with alcohol and glee._

“ _He is cute,” comes a familiar, albeit slurred voice, accompanied by strong arms wrapping around his waist. “And he’s all mine!”_

Yuuri rings the bell to Christophe Giacometti’s most recent known address. He waits, heart pounding, bouncing his leg nervously-

After the longest few seconds of Yuuri’s life, the door creaks open, and a tall, blonde man fills the doorway.

 _Of course he’s taller than me_ , Yuuri thinks, miserably.

“Christophe Giacometti?” Yuuri asks, meekly, trying to muster up his courage again.

Christophe nods, and Yuuri notes he’s wearing a luxurious purple robe - the peek of tan thigh beneath it hints that the robe may be all he’s wearing. A sick sort of anger bubbles in Yuuri’s chest as he imagines Victor appearing behind him, equally undressed, love bites all over his neck-

“I’m not sure I know you,” Christophe purrs in English, edging his leg out of the robe, just a little. “To what do I owe the pleasure of such a lovely visitor?”

“I’m not here for _you_ ,” Yuuri gasps, horrified.

Christophe blinks. “Oh,” he sniffs, pulling his leg back into the robe. “You see, I was confused. Because this is my house.”

Yuuri groans in frustration, rubbing at his eyes while Christophe looks on, bemused and a little annoyed.

“I’m,” He takes a deep breath and switches to French. “I’m looking for someone. The last records of him showed he was living with you, nearly four years ago. Please, do you know anything about the whereabouts of Victor Nikiforov?”

Christophe’s mouth drops open in shock, bordering on incredulity. Yuuri winces.

“He was my roommate,” Christophe says. “Years ago now. What on earth brought you to my door in search of him?”

Yuuri explains, voice trembling, “You're the only lead I have. He doesn't seem to be anywhere, so I was hoping – maybe you knew something? Is he even in Paris, did he move?”

Christophe shakes his head, slowly.

“Please, come in,” he sighs, “I’ll tell you what I know.”

Inside, the apartment is cozy but well-maintained, with bits of fabric strewn about and two separate sewing machines on two separate tables. Yuuri marvels at the glittery feathers and sequins and beading on one of the gowns - clearly not dresses for daytime wear.

Yuuri frowns at one of the mostly completed creations while Christophe pulls on proper clothing behind a divider.

“This looks a little misshapen,” Yuuri mumbles, “For a woman, at least.”

Christophe pops his head above the divider and winks. “They’re not for women,” he smirks, stepping out while dressed in some semblance of normal clothing. “Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Coffee?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “Please,” he breathes, “What happened to Victor?”

Christophe sighs again, running his hand over his goatee. “I’m not… entirely sure.” He closes his eyes. “I can tell you up to what I know, though. Hopefully it’ll help - I’m worried about him.”

Yuuri wants to throw up his hands in frustration and shout, _what good are you, then?_

Clearly, though, Christophe is worried - so Yuuri is right to worry.

Christophe gestures for Yuuri to sit down. He rustles around in one of his drawers, mumbling to himself, before pulling out a faded photograph and placing it down before Yuuri.

It’s Victor. His hair is short-cropped, his eyes are grim, his cheeks look hollow, but it’s him - next to a few other men, equally grim, equally hollow. The date on the photo reads _1917_.

“Victor lived with me for a while, after the war,” Christophe explains, “I had just moved to work in the Moulin Rouge as a dressmaker, and his military pension didn’t properly cover an apartment, and he couldn’t really make it up more than a few flights of stairs - didn’t talk to me much, at first. I figured he was shy, you know?”

Yuuri nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“He didn’t seem to have much in the way of family, so I tried to help him out, but I think it was just too much.”

“What was?” Yuuri snaps.

Christophe shrugs. “I don’t know. Nothing. Everything. He’d find a job, but then be out of work a few weeks later. He could barely focus during the day - then, he started disappearing. He’d come back in the morning, not knowing where he’d been the night before - didn’t smell like alcohol, or anything, just didn’t know where he was.”

“Victor,” Yuuri whimpers, clutching at his chest.

Christophe’s face contorts in pain and he continues, “Nights turned to days, to weeks - I’d ask him where he was, but he’d just shrug and say he was looking for something. Then, one day, he stopped coming home entirely.” Christophe sighs. “I think the war did something to him. Shell shock, you know? I didn’t know - I didn’t know what to do.”

“Did you at least try to find him?” Yuuri shouts, unable to stop the burst of emotion. The thought of Victor with shell shock, alone all this time-

“Of course I did,” Christophe says, taken aback. “Tracked him down through half the city and begged him to come back, but he refused. Told me it was best I forgot about him. What could I do after that?”

“You could have - you could have taken him back with you!” Yuuri splutters, “You could have made sure he was safe! Called the police! I don’t know, there must’ve been _something_ -”

“Doctors still don’t know how to fix it,” Christophe snaps, “How was I supposed to know? I tried, I really did, but _god_ \- there was nothing I could do. We were perfect strangers. He needed more than me.”

“You’re right,” Yuuri says, horrified. “He needed - he needed _me_ , and I wasn’t there-”

Christophe’s expression softens. “You couldn’t have known,” he soothes, as fat tears begin to trail down Yuuri’s cheeks, “You couldn’t have. It’s frightening, the things shell shock does to a person. Doesn’t matter how safe they are, it’s like - it’s like they never left the war.”

Yuuri lets out a low sob, thinking of the letter, how he should have known something was wrong-

Christophe offers him a tissue and he blows his nose, loudly.

As he wipes his eyes, Christophe eyes him curiously, and asks, “What did you say your name was, again?”

Yuuri blinks through the tears. “Oh,” he says, “Uh, Yuuri.”

Christophe smiles, softly. “He’d talk about you,” he says. “When he was lucid. Kept saying he needed to write to you, but I never saw him actually do it.”

“He did write to me,” Yuuri whispers, “Told me to forget about him. I can’t though - please, do you have any idea where he might be?”

Christophe winces and shakes his head. “I can tell you where I found him last time,” he says, “But that’s about it. Yuuri, I’m - I’m truly sorry.”

Yuuri nods, unable to mask his disappointment.

“Take this,” Christophe says, nodding to the photo. “Hopefully it will help you find him.”

The door to Christophe’s apartment closes with an awful finality. That was the last and only lead that Yuuri had for Victor’s whereabouts - no occupations, no current residences. Yuuri sighs, supposing he could begin to check patient lists for sanatoriums and war hospitals, but that could take months, and Victor needs - well, maybe not him, but he needs _someone_. He needs _help_.

Yuuri stares down at the photo, at the grim emptiness in Victor’s eyes, so different than the sparkling blue he remembers. It hurts so desperately, not knowing where Victor could be.

The metro rattles on his way home. Yuuri's head hurts.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "graphic depictions of violence" tag is for this chapter, but it's really only a line or two, and it's in the past. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!! I've been travelling, so I'm just posting this real quick, but I appreciate all your comments and the like! I'll try to answer all the comments in the upcoming week or so! Hopefully I didn't make any really egregious history errors haha.

Victor’s back aches. It aches slightly less, these days, now that he’s found a mattress to sleep on for the night, but it’s still nothing close to comfort. Paris in the summer used to be beautiful, green trees and chirping birds and songs crooning from cafes.

Now, it just reeks.

Some days, Victor forgets where he is. He looks up at the bridges and sees a dark night sky, bombs bursting above the heavens. He’s floating through life, empty, alone.

He wasn’t alone, once. There was music, and touch, and soft brown eyes. Sneaking into scandalous nighttime shows because he knew the performers, kissing until he was gasping for breath, drowning in the hands and mouth all over him.

Right, he thinks, sadly. He told Yuuri to forget him - and Yuuri, ever loyal, had done just that.

Victor remembers the bomb, how the earth came up all around him, like a chasm had opened up far below. The man next to him, one second smiling at the photograph he always held tight against his breast, the next matted clumps of flesh and guts strewn across the battlefield.

The pain, searing up his leg once the ringing in his ears faded. Severed tendons and ligaments, bits of shrapnel embedded into him, how long it took them to get him away because they needed to tend to the men with their organs spilling out or arteries spurting black blood into the soil.

He never was a soldier. Men his age were supposed to be soldiers, but he wasn’t - he loved to dance, loved to be held, loved soft, happy things. Victor was popular, though, beloved - more fiercely proud of France than half the people born to French parents on French soil. Of course he had to go. It was never a question.

 _Look at me now_ , he thinks, anguished, _I gave everything for you, and look what’s left of me_.

A soft snuffling beside him brings Victor back. Makkachin, his only companion, whines and leans her head against Victor’s thigh, as though she's sensed his distress.

“Mm,” he murmurs, “Sit with me again today, please?”

Makkachin licks his chin, tongue lolling out happily. He scratches behind her ears, buries his face in her soft fur. It’s helpful, having her around - someone to focus on, to protect. Whenever he’s disappearing into his own head, she’s there to pull him back out.

The sun is rising just as he makes his way into position on the sidewalk, hat tipped out right in front of his crutch and ruined leg. There are lots of tourists here, usually even more likely to give him a sympathetic glance and a few coins for a hot meal. Once, he was beloved by his countrymen - now, he’s a shame to them.

Some days, he wants to stand on the street corner and beg anyone who will listen, _help me! I gave everything for you, why aren't you helping me?_

He doesn’t know what kind of help he needs, though. The war ended years ago, so why, _why_ -?

Makkachin lies across his lap the whole day, and he focuses on her, on the sausages he’s going to get to feed her with today’s haul. It’s summer, and there are more people taking long, slow strolls along the streets, so he eats a little better.

Sunset comes, and he sighs, exhausted, stuffing coins into his pockets as he prepares to limp back for the night. He’s getting older, he can’t stay out all night. It’s dangerous, especially when only one of his legs really works. There are hooligans who would gladly steal what he’s earned – worse are the police, who would toss him in jail alone and penniless without a single sympathetic glance.

Something happens, then - he glances up to note the patrons entering bars, subdued locals and tourists, raucous Americans ready to go hog-wild with unrestricted access to alcohol.

Victor freezes, looking at one of the faces in front of a jazz cafe, illuminated by low street light. There’s something familiar about him. Could it be - no, his mind must be playing tricks on him, the mercurial bastard. He looks down to Makkachin, grounding himself, and looks back up-

He’s still there. Yuuri is still there, looking infinitely older and more exhausted, but those eyes, that face, just across the street-

Yuuri’s gaze rakes down the street, and Victor swears it passes right over him, and his heart thump-thumps in his chest-

But Yuuri doesn’t see him. And Victor sees, with an awful pang, that Yuuri doesn’t see any of them, the men like him along the boulevard. He lets out a low, horrified moan, and Makkachin prods at his knee to comfort him.

 _It’s me_ , Victor wants so desperately to call, _It’s me! Yuuri, please, come find me!_

Yuuri’s expression is so melancholy, so sad, and Victor aches to pull him into his arms, but his leg won’t work and anyway, Yuuri couldn’t want him after the letter he sent.

Victor scrambles to his feet, leaning heavily on his crutch, blinking desperately in case this is all some hallucination, like the bombs he hears at night.

Before Victor can think to move, Yuuri sighs and strolls along the street - where he’s headed, Victor can’t begin to fathom. His throat is constricted, his tongue won’t move, and would Yuuri hear him if he cried out or just think he’s crazy, like everyone does?

 _What’s he doing here?_ Victor wonders, looking up at the starry sky and wondering at the twist of fate that brought Yuuri back to Paris. Back to him?

Victor hobbles across the street, swerving out of the way of motor cars, which Makkachin happily barks at.

“Excuse me!” He calls at the bartender that had shooed Yuuri away, “Excuse me, sir!”

The bartender flinches back as Victor approaches. “Eugh!” He shouts, whipping a towel in Victor’s direction. “Go away! We don’t have anything for you.”

“No,” Victor pleads, “I just want to ask - that man, who was he? Does he come here often? Do you know-”

“How would I know?” the bartender shouts, shoving Victor back. Victor is barely able to stabilize himself, pain lancing up his bad leg as he steps onto it to stop himself from falling to the cobblestone sidewalk. “Get out of here! You’re scaring the patrons.”

The first time this happened, nearly two years ago, Victor had snapped at the shopkeeper with a throat still scratchy from mustard gas: “How dare you talk to me like that, I was in the war, I fought for you-”

And the shopkeeper had laughed and said, “Yeah? You and my son both. _He_ didn’t turn out like you.”

So, this time, Victor bites the inside of his lip and hobbles away, shame coloring his cheeks. The bartender won’t help him any further, he knows.

The next day, instead of visiting his normal Tuesday locale, he sits in the same spot from the day before and pleads, _pleads_ for Yuuri to return.

 _Come back to me,_ he thinks, barely paying attention to the passers by, _Please, please, something brought you back to me, don’t disappear again-_

But Yuuri doesn’t return that day, or the day after, or the day after - by the time the week is out, Victor has convinced himself he’d imagined it, for the sake of his own sanity.

* * *

 

Yuuri takes a deep, shuddering breath. He stands at the doorway to his apartment building, the streets splayed out before him, motor cars sputtering through and emitting their clouds of black smoke.

It was such a dishonor, he'd thought, when he was deferred from service. The little bite of relief that he wouldn't be exposed to the horrors of the trenches had come with such a wave of shame it had left him sick and trembling for days after.

“Were you in the war?” he asks the man sitting by his stoop.

The man looks up at him and points to himself, one eyebrow arched in confusion.

“Yes,” Yuuri breathes, sitting beside him on one of the stairs.

“Who's asking?” the man sniffs, turning his gaze to the side, away from Yuuri.

Yuuri bites his lip and rustles in his purse, dropping a few coins into the tin can in front of the man. The man looks up again, a mixture of interest and distrust on his dirty face.

“You a journalist?” he snaps.

Yuuri shakes his head. He brings out the photograph with trembling hands. “I'm looking for someone,” he pleads, voice barely above a whisper. “I think he might be... Might be on the streets. Please, I'll... I'll buy you breakfast.”

The man's gaze softens, just a little. Whether it's at the thought of helping or of breakfast, Yuuri doesn't know.

“Do you know this man?” Yuuri asks, desperate and barely letting himself hope. He points to Victor, to the ragged expression on his lovely face. “His name is Victor Nikiforov, have you ever seen him before?”

* * *

 

Victor can't get Yuuri out of his head. As though wrought from pure muscle memory, every time he sits at that same corner with his hat tipped out, he glances around reflexively – in search of a face he half thinks he imagined.

His mind has offered all sorts of tricks over the years – turning a street lamp into a bursting bomb overhead, turning the mechanical chug of a motor car into machine gun fire, turning his scarf into the choking, agonizing grip of mustard gas in his throat – so why not conjure up the image of someone he once knew?

He's angry, sometimes – he _told_ Yuuri to stay away, to forget him. Really, though, he should have known this might happen – the stubborn bastard snuck into one of Uncle Yakov's dreadful dinner parties just because Uncle Yakov told him he wasn't invited.

Uncle Yakov is in Russia – the Soviet Union, Victor corrects. He can't find him.

Summer wanes before Victor's gaze, the days steadily getting shorter and shorter. It's not growing cold, not nearly – but the passage of time weighs on Victor's bones. He finds himself waking in the middle of the night, Makkachin clutched tightly in his arms, wondering how much longer he can last like this. He's so, so lonely. It's just him, and his nightmares, and his dog.

He doesn't talk to the other men and women and children of the street. It's strange, then, when one comes up to him and whispers, “Hey – someone's looking for you.”

Victor blinks. He turns to the smudged face in front of him, a mirror image of his own, and says, “Looking for me?”

The man nods. “A buddy of mine let me know – a guy was poking around by the opera house, looking for someone who looks just like you.”

Victor swallows, thickly. “What... What did he say?”

A shrug. “That's all my buddy said. Be careful – good people don't go looking for guys like us.”

“What did the man look like?” Victor whispers, heart thudding in his chest.

The man shrugs again. “Asian? Had an American accent when he spoke French.”

Victor's heart _pounds_. What other man could it be – how many Asian-Americans does he know? It's Yuuri, it's _Yuuri –_ looking for him! Yuuri is looking for him, and Victor is here, and Victor finally wants to be found-

“What else do you know about him?” Victor pleads, “How can I find him?”

“No clue,” the man says, taken aback. “I've told you what I know – my buddy says he's been poking around all over.”

“Can you – can you tell your buddy to tell him that I'm here?” Victor gasps, tears beading at the corners of his eyes. “Please. Tell him, tell – tell anyone you know. I'm here, I'll be here waiting for him.”

The man gives him a slow, searching gaze. “You don't know what he wants,” he mutters, “You don't know if it's anything good.”

“Please,” Victor begs, gripping the man's coat.

The man shakes him off. “Sure,” he grunts, “Sure. Fine, you suicidal bastard. You're here. Anyone I run into, I'll tell them to tell him that.”

And so Victor waits. He waits in the same spot, day in and day out. The man doesn't show up again – some people are like that, Victor knows. Some like to beg or sell goods in one consistent place, others worry about the police stealing their goods and wander about the city, silent and unnoticed as shadows.

Victor waits for Yuuri, heart pounding in anticipation, not even sure if the man had passed on his desperate plea to any of the other people.

He tries a few times to go around and ask the other people like him whether they've met an Asian-American, specifically Japanese-American (not that the average westerner could tell the difference, Victor thinks) recently. Some of them are irritated that he's frightening people away from them, and they rudely turn him away, but he keeps asking.

“Please, tell anyone you speak to, I'm here. If they see an Asian man with an American accent, tell him I'm here.”

Victor goes to one of the spots Yuuri had visited, once, stays there as though Yuuri will return to a spot where he's had no luck. He gets all the information he can from the people Yuuri had spoken to – though his fellow street people seem more inclined to help him than angry shopkeepers – and learns that Yuuri is going, district by district, looking for him.

He stays put, after that, telling everyone he sees to let Yuuri know he's waiting.

This might be the cruelest trick that's been played upon him, he thinks – worse than his leg or his restless mind, the little tastes of his first love reminding him of a time when he was warm and safe, only to have Yuuri slip like sand through his calloused fingers.

He stops visiting his other locales. He waits, patiently, searching the passers by for familiar faces.

 _I'll wait for you,_ Victor thinks, _I'll wait for you until my last breath_.

* * *

 

“Hey – hey, Victor.”

When Yuuri finally does find him, the anticlimax of it is almost painful. Victor had pictured spotting him from down the street, standing on shaky legs and falling into his arms. Instead, it's with a soft voice and the crack of his joints as Yuuri kneels down till he's at Victor's eye level.

Yuuri pets Makkachin, who has poked her head up to see the stranger by Victor's side.

“How are,” Yuuri begins, and realizes his mistake too late, so he finishes the thought with a sheepish, shameful, “...you.”

Victor can barely breathe.

Yuuri continues. “I know you said to forget you, but I got here – I came here, trying to recapture _something_ , and I couldn't get you out of my head. It's like something was calling me back. I know you probably didn't really want me here-”

“Yuuri,” Victor breathes, reaching out with a shaking hand.

Yuuri smiles, softly, and presses the palm to his cheek, kissing it, despite the dirt.

“Sorry for ignoring what you asked of me,” Yuuri stammers. “It just didn't feel right. It didn't feel like you.”

Victor nods, a dreamy smile spreading across his face.

“Please,” Yuuri pleads, “Could you, uh, say something? I'm getting a little worried. Do you know where you are?”

Victor nods, slowly. “Right beside _Boulangerie Viennoise,_ _w_ here I always am.”

Yuuri nods. “Do you know what year it is?”

Victor feels a flash of irritation and quickly stamps it down. “1923. I'm in Paris. And I'm Victor, an you're – You're Yuuri, and I think you're real.” Then, inexplicably, he gestures to his dog and says, “This is Makkachin.”

Yuuri blinks. “Hi, Makkachin,” he says, politely shaking the poodle's paw.

Makkachin licks Yuuri's hand, happily.

“Hey,” Yuuri says, cautious as he monitor's Victor's expression. “Hey. There's hot water at my apartment – some good food. Do you want... I could give that to you, if you wanted?”

Victor pinches himself. Yuuri yelps and grabs his hand, pulling it to his chest.

“Sorry,” Victor murmurs, “In case this is a dream.” He meets Yuuri's gaze – nervous, unsure, and so, so beautiful. “I'd love that, Yuuri.”

* * *

 

Yuuri's apartment has many, many stairs. He shoots Yuuri a reproachful look as they reach the stoop, and Yuuri winces in apology.

“I could carry you,” he offers, utterly sincere.

 _I'd like that_ , Victor thinks.

“I can walk,” Victor says, softly.

Yuuri offers Victor new clothes while Victor pants in exhaustion from the mere two flights, leaning heavily against the wall. He places them gently in the bathroom, over a set of spare, soft towels. He offers Victor soap, _glorious soap_ , and says he'll prepare some soup for when Victor is done washing himself.

 _It's a bit hot for soup_ , Victor thinks, but his stomach growls in seeming disagreement, so he ignores the thought.

Makkachin hops in the bath as well, and Victor giggles as they both wash the dirt and grime from their bodies. They make a mess of Yuuri's bathroom, and guilt washes over him, overwhelming – he spends an extra hour cleaning up, worried Yuuri will kick him out if he sees what Victor has done.

The thought of Yuuri being upset with him was never pleasant, but now, it’s terrifying. Everything is more terrifying. Some days, Victor sits, barely able to breathe for fear – but nothing is _wrong_ , the sun is shining and he has money for food, it’s just that terror is gripping him and it won’t let go.

Victor can't seem to stop himself from staring at his face in the mirror. His eyes are so brilliantly blue, his face an almost ghostly shade of white. He's always been pale, prone to burning in the bright sunlight, but the dark circles under his eyes and cheekbones sharpened with starvation make him look like a corpse.

His hair is longer – not the very short cut from the battlefield, just enough so that his bangs swoop over his eyes, but not the long, luxurious locks of his youth, either. Yuuri used to love running his fingers through it, Victor remembers, and he cards his own scabbed fingers through the strands. It's not quite the same, and Victor grunts in frustration.

With all the dirt washed away, the discoloration on his bad leg is all the clearer. The scars form mottled lines by his ankle; his toes curl in awkwardly. There are little half-healed scabs and splotches around the wound, and Victor picks at one in frustration, only stopping once he begins to bleed.

Victor inhales the hot steam from the bath, the floral scent of rich soap still lingering in the air. It's strange, going from homelessness to luxury – stranger still how he can fit into the clothing Yuuri has laid out for him, with even a little room to spare.

He's always been bigger than Yuuri – taller, broader. Yuuri is strong, surprisingly so, but it's lean muscle and a willowy, deceptively small frame. The soft trousers are too short – not a surprise – but where they'd fit snuggly around Yuuri's waist, Victor has to tie them to keep them up.

As if on cue, Victor's stomach growls again, and he quickly pulls out his trusty coin purse to see what kind of meal he can afford today before remembering that Yuuri is here, and Yuuri is going to feed him. A lump forms in Victor's throat.

Yuuri watches him as he eats. Makkachin is gnawing on some leftover beef bones in the corner, and Victor is gnawing on crusty bread softened by a rich beef and vegetable soup. There's a touch of red wine in here, Victor can tell, and it makes him feel like a king to eat it. Yuuri places a plate of cheese beside him, and Victor feasts on soup and bread and rich French cheese.

When Victor grabs for his fourth or fifth slice of bread, Yuuri reaches out to place a gentle hand on his forearm.

“I don't want you to make yourself sick,” He murmurs, running his thumb along Victor's skin.

Victor shudders, the fine hairs on his arm sticking up pleasantly as Yuuri strokes him. He swallows thickly, one last bite of bread and cheese, and sits back to let the food settle in his stomach. He's already feeling a little nauseous, unpleasantly full, but it was so hard to stop when he's spent so long not sure when his next meal would be.

Yuuri's staring at him, gaze unreadable. Victor stares back, at the smooth lines of his face. His jawline is sharper, the little bits of baby fat moulded into a more mature, almost ethereal look. Yuuri is _beautiful_ , Victor realizes, and the thought makes him shrink back, remembering his own ghostly ugliness in the mirror – not to mention Yuuri's two working feet.

Then, Yuuri moves, and Victor has barely time to ask why before Yuuri is kissing him. His lips are so soft, so much more skilled than when they were teenagers and yet still with that same distinct flavor and shyness.

Victor pulls back, a little stunned, and says, “If I'd known you were going to do that, I wouldn't have eaten the roquefort.”

Yuuri snorts ungracefully and claps a hand over his mouth to muffle it. Victor flushes bashfully and takes Yuuri's hands in his own. Yuuri leans forward to kiss him again, the rest of the soup and bread and cheese forgotten on the table.

Victor grips the back of Yuuri's head, pulling him closer, and he registers the scrape of a chair as Yuuri leans into Victor's grasp. Yuuri's tongue laps out to taste Victor, and Victor lets out a feverish moan at the sensations, hyper-sensitive after years with no touch, not even his own.

Yuuri grabs Victor's collar, pulls him up so they're even closer, and Victor stands to lean into Yuuri's grip-

And puts weight on his bad leg, and he and Yuuri, still connected, tumble to the hard floor with a startled yelp.

“Sorry,” Yuuri gasps in the aftermath, cradling the back of Victor's head in his hands and leaning over him, “Sorry, I wasn't, I didn't-”

Victor sighs, pressing a kiss to a soft, smooth palm. “It's alright,” he murmurs, lying flat on his back on Yuuri's floor, “It's alright.”

Yuuri clambers on top of him, straddling his skinny hips, and brushes Victor's bangs aside to press a soft kiss to Victor's forehead. Then, eyes filling with tears, he puts their foreheads together – Victor closes his eyes, feeling hot, wet tears dripping down onto his cheeks, listening to Yuuri's ragged breathing. He wraps his arms around Yuuri, swallowing desperately before he begins crying as well, and holds him tight.

“Stay the night?” Yuuri pleads, still bent over him, as if in prayer. “Stay with me?”

Victor swallows. He worries about the nights, he worries about what his mind will show him when the light leaves the aparment and all that's left in shadow. He worries about his bad leg, mutilated and brushing up against Yuuri for hours.

“Please,” Yuuri begs. “I can't forget about you. I know you said to, but I want – if you leave me, I want it to be because you have no more love for me, not because of anything else.”

Victor can't stop the tears, this time, and when he opens his eyes, he lets himself get lost in a sea of clear amber-brown.

“I could never stop loving you,” Victor says in a strained, cracked voice, “I was worried you'd stop loving me, once you saw what had become of me.”

Yuuri lets out a low sob and kisses Victor again, salty and wet with tears, clutching Victor's hand in his.

“Never,” he whispers, fiercely, “Never.”

* * *

 

In the middle of the night, Yuuri jolts awake with the rattling of a late-night train. There's a strong hand on his back immediately, the warmth of soft fur and another body cocooning him as he comes back to himself.

Victor looks down at him, curiously. “Is it the same nightmare?” he asks, carding his fingers through Yuuri's soft black hair.

Yuuri ducks his head in shame, nodding into Victor's armpit. Victor giggles and wriggles away.

“Tickles,” he murmurs, as Yuuri buries his face into Victor's neck instead. Victor’s skin radiates warmth, the entire bed smelling of his sweet floral soap and fresh detergent. It’s so cozy, Victor in his arms, Victor’s dog doing her best to cuddle up beside the two of them. She seems to have fallen in love with Yuuri immediately, and Victor can’t blame her.

“Could you sleep?” Yuuri asks, gently.

Victor stiffens – Yuuri feels it in the dark room, just as he feels the long, sad exhale rumbling through his whole body.

“I did a little,” Victor murmurs. “It's hard to sleep, sometimes. I don't really like sleeping.”

Yuuri pulls the covers up with a sad noise, until they're tucked in around Victor's neck.

“Try again?” he asks, “Let's try falling back to sleep together.”

Victor sighs, shrugging. “If you say so.”

“'M serious,” Yuuri mumbles, stubborn. “C'mere. I'll wait for you to fall asleep.”

“You might be waiting a while,” Victor says. His heart flip-flops in his chest, equal parts embarrassed and touched by how much Yuuri seems to _care_ about him. Victor cares too, of course, but he’s always cared too much about too many things – throwing love at anyone who looked at him kindly. Yuuri is the only one who, even at eighteen, had returned that love in spades.

Yuuri runs his fingers through Victor's short hair, just like he used to, so gentle it sends delicious shivers up his spine. Victor shudders, sighing softly.

“Don' care,” Yuuri slurs, sleep creeping into his voice. “C'mere.”

Yuuri pulls Victor to him, holds him close. Victor’s nose presses into Yuuri’s neck, right beside the beating pulse-point, and he shudders as feather-soft breaths brush against the top of his heat, as his body rocks alongside the rise and fall of Yuuri’s chest. Beside them, Makkachin whines and repositions herself, flopping over Yuuri's belly, and Victor closes his eyes.

* * *

 

A hand grips Victor's wrist.

Victor freezes, just barely having been able to dangle his legs over the side of the bed without making a sound. Sunrise casts golden rays of light into the little room, and with it, Victor had woken up, circadian rhythm in tune with the rise and fall of the sun.

“Whas' going on?” Yuuri mumbles, voice slurred cutely in his exhaustion.

“I'm, ah – going for a walk,” Victor lies, not able to meet Yuuri's inquisitive gaze.

Yuuri eyes him skeptically. “I think you’re trying to leave,” he yawns, rubbing his eyes, “It'd be really mean of you to lie to me.”

“I'm not lying,” Victor lies again. It's a sort of lie, a half-lie – he is going for a walk, he just doesn't intend to come back. Transience has become a part of his life, now – constantly creeping forward on the front, carrying his meager possessions on his back, unable to sleep in once place for a long time. It's just a matter of time before he disappoints Yuuri, might as well do it sooner.

Last night, he was so comfortable, so warm. Then the morning came, and the comfort became claustrophobic and suffocating.

“Mm, I'll come with you on your walk,” Yuuri mumbles, rubbing soothing circles into Victor's wrist.

“Please,” Victor pleads, and he doesn't know what he's pleading for.

Yuuri continues on, stubborn, “Eat breakfast with me first?”

“I...” Tears well up in Victor's eyes, unbidden, and he buries his face in his hands to sob. He doesn't know why he's crying. He never knows what his emotions are doing, doesn't know what to do with himself. It's like he never left the trenches, and he doesn't know how to find his way home.

Yuuri wraps around him, warm, soft. Makkachin flops off the bed to rest her chin on his knees – oh, Makkachin. He'd intended on leaving her with Yuuri. Yuuri would take good care of her, Victor knows. Feed her, cuddle her, give her the life she deserves.

Yuuri's humming something and rocking him back and forth. He swears he knows that tune, remembers those sweet notes from somewhere.

“Vitya,” Yuuri says, serious even as he rocks Victor back and forth, back and forth, rubbing his thumb along Victor's shoulder. “Have you ever considered going to a hospital?”

Victor blinks through the tears. “A hospital?”

Yuuri nods, holding Victor even tighter. “They have wartime hospitals. I've been reading about them – poets have gone to one in England, but I worry. I don’t want... I don’t want to send you to someone who will treat you cruelly. You’ve had enough of that.”

“I'm just being silly,” Victor whispers, “It was so long ago, I don’t know why, don’t know what’s still fucking wrong with me-”

“S'not silly,” Yuuri murmurs into Victor's shoulder, “Whoever told you that was wrong. I’ve read about it, read about shell shock, it’s _real_ , Victor. It’s not you being silly.”

Victor cries, soft and muffled by how own hands. He feels safe again, with Yuuri around him and Makkachin in front of him, despite his tears. For a moment, he's warm, comfortable – everything's soft and light.

“Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori,” Victor whispers.

“I know that poem,” Yuuri says, softly. “It makes me sad.”

“Mm,” Victor laughs, bitterly. “It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country. It's living that's shameful.”

“You're not shameful,” Yuuri says, kissing Victor's shoulder, and Victor laughs, bitterly.

There's a long pause, after that. Finally, Yuuri, unsure what else to say, mumbles, “Breakfast?”

Victor's stomach growls, and he laughs shakily.

Yuuri pads into the kitchen, and Victor flops back against the bed, mind in turmoil. He doesn't want to leave, but he feels like he needs to. He feels safe, but the constant buzzing of his mind tells him that won't last for long.

 _I want to be happy_ , Victor thinks, _I just want to be happy._

A song starts playing, soft and crooning, and Victor gasps, memories flooding back, choking him in their intensity. Yuuri, soft and young and round, kissing him by the Eiffel Tower. The sun dipping behind cathedrals late into the evening, the taste of coffee and chocolate on Victor's lips, feeling so happy he thinks it might burst out of him into thousands of tiny stars.

Watching Yuuri doze in the library during their studies, glasses crooked on his nose – Yuuri's body, pressed against his, dancing as music fills the cafe.

“Mm,” Yuuri murmurs at the telltale thump of Victor's crutch as he comes into the kitchen. “Recognize this song?”

He puts two steaming cups of coffee onto the rickety table. There's crunchy, leftover bread, fresh butter, and strawberry jam laid out in little dishes.

In the morning light, no longer distracted by _food, need to eat,_ Victor notes books on psychoanalysis littering the tables, the chairs. Letters and articles about French wartime hospitals lie scattered about on top of them. He swallows, emotions a roiling whirlwind.

“You're cheating,” Victor sniffs. “Playing on my emotions to keep me around.”

“I'm bribing you,” Yuuri responds, smiling softly. As the sun rays hit his face, they light up his brown eyes with flecks of gold. “I have my own record player, now. I can play you any song you like.”

_Keep the love-light glowing in your eyes so true_

“Yuuri,” Victor whispers, because it seems that's all he's capable of saying.

“Vitya,” Yuuri says. “Dance with me?”

Victor moves forward, drawn by invisible puppet strings. Yuuri wraps around him, one hand clasped over Victor's on his crutch, one firm on Victor's shoulder. They sway, softly, careful not to put any weight on Victor's bad leg.

The music croons on, and Victor thinks, _I want to feel like I did before._ Then, he shakes his head. There's no _before_ now, not after the war. The world has been ripped apart, put back together in little jagged pieces, and Victor feels he's much the same.

He thinks, _I want to be happy_.

Yuuri rests his head on Victor's chest, eyes closed, clutching Victor so, so tight.

He thinks, _I won't let you go again_.

_Let me call you "Sweetheart," I'm in love with you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My impression of war hospitals (ie asylums specifically for soldiers with PTSD, then called shell shock) was that they were better than the traditional Bedlam-esque asylum, but because mental healthcare was still uh, preeeeeetty bad I wanted to leave it open if he actually goes to one. Either way, he slowly gets better with proper care! 
> 
> The ending in general is more open ended then I tend to write. I'm not sure why I got struck with the sudden inspiration to write a story like this, which is waaaay different than my usual fare, but thanks for sticking around!

**Author's Note:**

> Yuuri is having nightmares of the 1906 San Francisco earthquake, which caused massive fires that destroyed most of the city. 
> 
> Sara mentions "hollow men," which is a reference to the poem "[The Hollow Men](https://www.shmoop.com/hollow-men/poem-text.html)" by T.S. Eliot (though that wouldn't be published until later in the 20s, shh, let me be pretentious)


End file.
